


You're Not Alone

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Coping, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Protective Logic | Logan Sanders, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, brief mention of suicidal thoughts but it's just in passing and not explicit at all, kind of, neurodivergent communities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27340234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: It’s just a little off.It’s not like it’s some big obvious thing that his parents immediately took notice of. It’s not something his doctor noted on his sheet and made sure to talk about. It’s not even something one of his teacher gently pulled him aside for.It’s just…not quite right.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 112





	You're Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to heartwitchhouse on tumblr for the request! I hope it's what you wanted, I had fun with it ^_^

**heartwitchhouse request:** Hey uh.. can I get Logan introducing Thomas to neurodivergent communities online?

* * *

It’s just a _little_ off.

It’s not like it’s some big obvious thing that his parents immediately took notice of. It’s not something his doctor noted on his sheet and made sure to talk about. It’s not even something one of his teachers gently pulled him aside for.

It’s just…not quite right.

He knows that his classmates don’t struggle to stare at the board or their work for like…three minutes at a time, but he also knows one of his classmates who can’t do it for three seconds. He knows the others don’t lapse into gray hazes where doing literally _anything_ feels like an insurmountable force, but he also knows the kids that can’t even _come_ to school on certain days.

He knows people who are better, but he also knows people who are worse.

He has good days. Great days. Great weeks, even. It’s just…sometimes he’ll have a bad day and he can’t help but look at everybody else who’s having a _worse_ day.

And here’s the thing. He knows how to work through it.

He can put his head down and just _get things done._ It doesn’t matter that he can’t focus for more than three minutes, he’ll do the work he can in those three minutes and then move onto something else. Maybe he’ll get to cycle back and pick it up again later. He can shake his head to clear it and squint at his work again, just to finish this one page through the haze. He can make it.

But it’s just that; _making_ it.

He can’t deny the way the polite smile from his teachers settles heavily in the pit of his stomach saying that yeah, he did _fine,_ but he could’ve done better. The way the list of things he needs to do gets checked off by just the bare _minimum,_ something he’s going to have to redo in just a few days, makes his hands itch. The insecurities over all the things he _could_ have done, could have done _better,_ all the things he’s missed, pile up in his brain until he has to shove them all away just to breathe on bad days. But doesn’t everyone struggle with insecurity now and then? This is normal, right?

Or is it just a little off?

“Oh, I’m sure you’d feel better if you just exercised more! Get yourself a workout schedule, there’s no better free therapy!”

Running makes his chest feel like it’s going to explode. His arms and legs ache after the first round of whatever ‘beginner’ program he decides to try _once._ The gray haze only flourishes, steady as ever on bad days.

“Just focus on your studies, I’m sure once you’ve got more structure in your life it’ll help you feel better, sweetie.”

Work pounds into his head and he gets it done. All the things he could’ve done better stay there too, bold and bright on the page next to red slashes of ink. He puts his head down and goes, goes, goes. That doesn’t help the bad days, it just pushes them off. Then they get worse.

“Maybe you just need to go outside more often, sunlight can do wonders for you!”

Listen. He and the sun have an agreement. The sun doesn’t like him. He doesn’t like the sun. It’s better if they just…stay out of each other’s way. He could do without the achy headaches the bright light gives him.

“Are you sure you’re drinking enough water? Are you eating the right stuff?”

His budget quickly becomes strained with the amount of ‘healthy food’ he’s supposed to buy. The piles of ‘proper ingredients’ sit in his cabinet, unused, taunting him with how difficult it’ll be to figure out _how to eat them._ The guilt over not using them worries at his throat as he’s forced to toss them out as they go bad. He gets raised eyebrows from everyone with how often he has to go to the bathroom. The ensuing doctor’s visit is one he’d rather not repeat any time soon, even though at that point it’s just… _you know those days where you’re like ‘this might as well happen? Adult life is already so goddamn weird?’_

“At least you can get out of bed most days. You seemed fine yesterday!”

…yesterday was _yesterday._ And just because he _got_ out of bed doesn’t mean anything. It wasn’t really a conscious choice, he just…had to do it.

“You’re not nearly as bad as—“

You know, it doesn’t really matter who they put at the end of that. The point is he’s not as bad as other people. So he doesn’t get the support that they get.

He doesn’t get the polite nods from professors when he needs an extension. He doesn’t get the medication prescribed to him for something that he shouldn’t need because he’s ‘healthy.’ When he finally tries therapy, the therapist compliments him on how easily he’s able to hold a conversation, maintain eye contact, and asks him if he’s tried keeping a diary.

During the nights when he can’t sleep, when the blankets feel way too rough, like sleeping on sandpaper that rubs persistently at his skin, he tosses and turns and thinks…would it be better if…

Would it be better if it were _worse?_

If it were more obvious, if he actually _had_ depression, anxiety, ADHD, something with a _name_ that people could recognize, or even just the freedom to say he had _something…_ would that be better?

He doesn’t cry every day. He can still feel things most of the time. He eats. He drinks water. He sleeps. He goes outside. He doesn’t get high or drink or do anything to try and numb the pain or escape it. He doesn’t have suicidal thoughts.

But it still feels like he’s _not quite right._

If he were worse…people would be more sympathetic. He wouldn’t be accused of milking anything for attention. He wouldn’t get scolded for making light of other people’s problems. He wouldn’t be faking it. Is he faking it? Is he blowing it up out of proportion?

Is it really as bad as he thinks it is?

He finds the perfect metaphor almost by accident. He’s over at a friend’s house one day and they’re in the kitchen, getting hot chocolate to drink before starting their movie night. He opens the cupboard and pulls out a mug with flowers all over it. As he turns to give it to his friend, he notices a chip in the rim.

“Oh, oh gosh, I, um, I’m sorry—“

“What? What’s wrong?” His friend takes the mug from his stuttering hands and squints at it. Her brow smooths out and she laughs. “Oh, are you worried about the chip?”

“…yeah. I don’t—I don’t think I did it?”

“You didn’t,” she says easily, filling it with hot milk, “it’s always been like that.”

“Oh, okay.” The black fuzzy things buzzing about his head settle at that as he leans back against the counter, ready to accept the mug of hot chocolate. It’s warm, pleasantly so, sending a rush of contentment up his arms as he cups his palms around it. “Where’s yours?”

“I’m almost done!”

He looks back down at the hot chocolate, shimmering brown with the kitchen light’s reflection. Tilting his head, he examines the chip in the ceramic. It’s not that big, barely noticeable, but there’s a sharp edge on the inside. He’ll have to be careful he doesn’t drink from that side. Wouldn’t do to burn his tongue _and_ accidentally cut his lip.

“Alright! I’m ready, let’s—ah!”

Her yelp startles him out of whatever hot-chocolate-drinking-planning haze he’d been in, only to see his friend staring at the floor with her hands over her mouth.

“Hey, whoa, are you okay? What happened?”

“I, um—“ _oh, no, she sounds so upset, let’s help her!—_ “I dropped my mug.”

Sure enough, as he hustles around the counter, he sees the broken mug, lying on the floor, hot chocolate spilling mockingly from the remains. He sets his mug—carefully!—on the counter, looking around for the paper towels.

“Did you get hurt?”

“What?” Her gaze doesn’t leave the floor. “No, no, it’s just…that was my favorite mug.”

A horrible sadness settles in his chest as he looks at her and he gently knocks their elbows. “It looks like it’s still got some pretty big pieces, we could…maybe we could fix it?”

“You came over here to watch movies, not to fix my mug.”

“We can do both, can’t we?”

So there they end up, with the lights on, newspaper spread on the floor, hot glue gun, superglue, carefully piecing together broken ceramic as Finding Nemo plays in the background. By the time the seagulls are all racing around the screen, frantically yelling ‘mine!’ they’ve set the now-fixed mug gingerly on the counter, out of harm’s way, and cleaned up all the spilled hot chocolate. As the night creeps on, their eyes growing heavier and heavier, they make it through Mulan, The Princess and the Frog, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. Just before they start The Black Cauldron, his friend gently taps the side of the mug.

“…I think it’s fixed!”

“Wait, really? That was fast!”

“Dude, it was like…at _least_ six hours ago.”

“Is that how fast superglue sets?”

“Have you never used superglue before?”

“Hey!”

The sight of his friend with her favorite mug cradled in her lap makes him smile as he turns his attention back to the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her talking softly to herself, saying how she promises to be more careful next time, how she’s so happy the mug is fixed, it’ll be better now, stronger this time. And yet she still cradles the cracked, seamed thing with the same tenderness she did when they first picked up the pieces.

He looks back down at the chipped mug in his lap. The chip is so small. It’s barely noticeable. It doesn’t make the mug leak or anything. The mug still works as a mug.

He runs his thumb over the rim, feeling just the slightest pressure when he runs over the chip. If he tried to drink from that side, it would hurt.

She’s had this mug for…years?

He looks back over at the mug in his friend’s lap.

The broken mug gets fixed.

The chipped mug stays chipped forever.

* * *

“Thomas?”

Thomas blinks, looking up from his lap to see Logan standing next to him. Logan adjusts his tie.

“You took a moment to respond.”

“Sorry. Did we, uh, are we late for something? Did I miss a deadline?”

There’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it expression that flitters across Logan’s face. Then he adjusts his glasses and it’s gone. Thomas frowns.

“…you okay, bud? What was that?”

“What was what, Thomas?”

“You, uh, you made a face.”

“I have a face, Thomas, we all have faces.”

“But you made an expression.”

“…I believe I am…incapable of not making an expression.”

“Logan,” Thomas sighs, “please tell me what’s wrong.”

Well, he certainly takes him by surprise at any rate. Logan glances around—is he worried the others are going to show up?—and adjusts his glasses again.

“I suppose I was…perturbed,” he settles on finally, “that your immediate assumption when I appeared was that I was going to…reprimand you in some way.”

Oh. “Jeez, um, sorry, Logan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Logan waves him off. “It’s quite alright.”

“But…no, it’s not.” Thomas shakes his head. “You…we gotta talk about this…more, but that’s _not_ the only thing you’re important for. You know that, right?”

…well, Logan’s certainly making a face now. It’s the same one he made after Remus first appeared, after Thomas called him ‘cool.’ After a moment of savoring _Logan_ looking a little flustered, he prompts him gently.

“Did you wanna talk about something?”

“Right,” Logan says quickly, shaking himself, “do you remember our conversation about neurodivergent communities?”

Right. They’d been talking about trying to find therapists during COVID and how it would be difficult since, y’know…going outside is more than _kind_ of a no-no. Virgil had brought up how it’s almost impossible to get a good read on whether or not a therapist would be appropriate for them without a proper appointment, which…kind of led to everyone agreeing that maybe it would be better to try just the texting one first. Logan had mentioned trying to find a group of people to talk to, not just a single person, until Janus said something about not knowing how to navigate something like that.

Not one of their more productive conversations.

“Since your desire to try and see a therapist seems to have stagnated,” Logan says as Thomas nods, “I have found an alternative solution that I believe might be more suited to your current approach to your mental health problems.”

“I don’t—Logan, I don’t have—“

The look Logan levels at him is enough to get him to shush.

“What’s the solution?”

“One of the main obstacles for finding a therapist or seeking help in a group setting was an unawareness of how to properly navigate those dynamics, correct?” Thomas nods. “Then it seems that a solution would be to simply find a group where you _do_ understand the dynamics, yes?”

“…how do I do that?” Thomas scruffs a hand through his hair. “I—look, I…I get that I should talk to someone, we made that clear but it’s just—I don’t—“

Logan waits patiently, his head tilted slightly, as Thomas struggles for words.

“…it’s not that _bad,”_ Thomas says lamely.

“But we’ve established that—“

“I know, I _know,”_ Thomas groans, burying his head in his hands, “but it’s just like—I don’t think I belong there.”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t that for people who have it _worse_?”

There must be some note of hysteria in that last word because Logan blinks and eases himself down onto the couch next to him, folding his hands in his lap and waiting patiently. When it’s clear Thomas isn’t going to be able to make words go for a while, he clears his throat.

“You don’t want to join a space in which you are not welcome, correct?”

Thomas nods miserably.

“This idea that you will not be welcome stems from the idea that your problems are not…severe enough?”

“Aren’t they?”

“Why must they be more severe for you to seek help?”

“I don’t know, I just—what if they think I’m faking?”

“Are you?”

That’s the kicker, isn’t it? When Thomas looks helplessly at Logan, uncertainty probably written plainly all over his face, Logan tilts his head.

“If you have to ask whether or not you’re faking,” he says in a soft voice Thomas rarely hears, “it’s almost certain that you are not.”

Thomas just nods dumbly.

“Mental illnesses can manifest in a variety of ways,” Logan continues in that same soft voice—and anyone who says Logan doesn’t understand emotion can get _out—_ “and you do not have to fulfill a certain standard of ‘bad’ in order to seek help.”

“But then how do I find people to—who will—who are gonna—“

“…understand?”

“Yeah.”

Logan’s mouth quirks up. “When was the last time you were on Tumblr?”

Thomas blinks. “Excuse me? Also don’t _you_ know that?”

“I do.” Logan gestures to Thomas’s phone. “You wanted a space where you understand how to interact with people and where talking about these types of things will not be a drastic breach of boundaries, yes?”

“…yeah?”

“You would be surprised at the amount of neurodivergent communities online.”

“So why’re you asking me about Tumblr?” The second it comes out of his mouth Thomas’s eyes widen. “Logan—“

“I am not suggesting that be your _only_ source of help, by any means,” Logan says quickly, “but it might serve as a good starting point. You know what is to be expected from Tumblr—relatively speaking,” he corrects when Thomas makes a face, “and it will help you see that, despite what you may think, you’re not alone.”

Logan stands, giving Thomas one last look before he sinks out.

“…and you don’t have to be grateful it isn’t worse, Thomas.”

Thomas looks down at his phone. He opens the app and types something into the search bar.

Logan was right. People…people _talk_ about stuff on Tumblr. Admittedly, it’s Tumblr, so it’s an absolute hellsite, but there is something a little reassuring about being able to just…word vomit into a post and see other people doing the same.

_Friendly reminder that people’s symptoms are gonna manifest in different ways and you’re not allowed to judge someone who experiences something different than you_

_REMINDED THAT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO GRATEFUL THAT THINGS AREN’T WORSE WE DO NOT PLAY THE PAIN OLYMPICS IN THIS HOUSE_

_You’re not alone._

He’s still gonna have to figure out how to find a therapist. He’s still gonna have to figure out how to talk about this kind of stuff.

  
But for now, he can sit here and scroll and realize that there are _words_ he can use to describe these things and it finally might start feeling right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on everyone's favorite hellsite:
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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